No More Mysteries
by Layla Reyne
Summary: Damon's dream becomes a nightmare when Elena digs further into his box of "life's mysteries" and discovers a surprising family heirloom. One-shot; post-4X17.


**No More Mysteries**

**By: Layla Reyne**

**Summary: **Damon's dream becomes a nightmare when Elena digs further into his box of "life's mysteries" and discovers a surprising family heirloom. One-shot; post-4X17.

**A/N:** WHAT'S IN THE BOX?! I couldn't help but speculate ...

_Many thanks to Sandra (dutchtreat), Chelley (chellethebelle) and Kate (This Is My Escape) for their beta and pre-reading assistance._

**Disclaimer: The characters and other things from The Vampire Diaries are not mine. All due credit to the rightful holders.**

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You should have known.

Her thinly veiled questions. Her remarkably spot-on impersonation of Brad Pitt. The way you caught her eyes drifting towards it when she thought you weren't paying attention.

And when you grounded her for that stunt she pulled in Pennsylvania, you were asking for it, binding her in your room with a spell. For her own protection, of course, because Katherine was on the warpath, raging mad with indignation that she had deigned to impersonate her. She was a bored, curious kitten, and you locked her up with a shiny new plaything right under her nose.

You should have known.

Standing in the doorway, you consider the mess she's made of your room, again. The box sits open, papers and pictures strewn haphazardly across the floor, and you heave a heavy sigh of annoyance. This is becoming a habit of hers that you're none too fond of. Between this, snapping your neck and grand theft auto, a tirade is on the tip of your tongue.

When you hear her shift somewhere to your right, you turn, ready to tear into her, but then you are robbed of your words, your breath, your heartbeat.

She's a vision in ivory-colored silk and hand-stitched lace, and the gown's train flared out behind her on the floor makes her appear impossibly more elegant.

But when you see her eyes in the mirror, your wonderment suddenly morphs into abject despair. They're empty, cold, assessing the dress like it's any other piece of clothing. You want them to be warm, full of adoration, brimming over with tears of joy. In your dreams, that's what you'd always expected of them, of her, in this moment.

When you left your home in 1864, you took one family heirloom with you. One reminder of the only person who ever truly, unconditionally loved you. You didn't want to crush it, so you folded it gently, not packing it too tightly. You're sure Lexi would have laughed had she known what was really in your suitcase that day.

You wanted to carry a piece of your mother with you, from a time in her life when she was happy and healthy. At least that's what she told you. And from the few photographs you have of her and your father smiling lovingly at each other on that day, you have no reason to doubt her.

You'd hoped one day to share it with the woman you loved, to look upon her in your mother's wedding dress and finally remember how it felt to be happy again.

At the time, you thought that woman would be Katherine, once you rescued her from the tomb beneath the church. But one hundred fifty years later, another girl wearing an identical face has supplanted her in your fantasies.

That first morning after, when the both of you were still blissfully ignorant and she was in your bathroom getting ready for school, you briefly gave in to the temptation of hope. Opening the box and removing the top tray of documents, you unzipped the garment bag and ran your fingers across the lace-covered silk, imagining how beautiful she would look in it. You foolishly let yourself believe in the possibility of your dream becoming reality.

You carried your delusion with you into the shower, let it overtake your heart and mind as you gazed into her soulful brown eyes and buried yourself inside her warmth one more time. When she tightened her legs around your waist and fisted her fingers in your wet hair, moaning your name as her inner walls clenched around your length, you grinned like an idiot into her neck and imagined what making love to her would be like on your wedding night.

And then, minutes later, Stefan reminded you of your eternal last place position in the race for a happy ending.

"Help me out here," she says, interrupting your spiraling melancholy. She looks over her shoulder and then down at the unfastened buttons running along the back of the dress.

You approach her in a daze, still profoundly rattled by the dissonance of your present situation. It's everything you wanted and nothing at all.

"Don't step on the train," she tells you, not that you, of all people, need to be told how to take care of antiques.

You bend down, letting the silk and lace slip through your fingers once more as you carefully drape the train to her side. Standing back up, you vigilantly avoid your reflections in the mirror, focusing all of your attention on the simple task of threading the buttons through their loops. When you're finished, you hang your head and let your hands rest lightly on her hips.

"It'll need to be taken in some," she states, skirting her hands over yours on the way up the bodice, pulling the excess fabric together at her sides. "It's not like I'm going to be putting on any weight or filling this out."

"So who's the lucky fellow?" you ask, unsure which answer you're more afraid of.

"You," she replies matter-of-factly, without a moment of hesitation, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world. And before you can catch yourself, you look up and meet her vacant eyes in the mirror.

You turn your head quickly so she doesn't see the sudden tears well up in your eyes. It's so different from the last time she gave you that answer. There's no held breath, no wide awe-struck eyes, no little smile playing at the corners of her mouth. This time it's delivered bluntly, emotionlessly, with a shrug of her shoulders. The stark contrast nearly rips you in two.

You cover the sob that's trying to escape with a bitter laugh. "I don't recall ever proposing to you."

Stepping away from her, you kneel down to pick up the pieces of your past that she's scattered around your room, but in a flash, she's back in front of you, raising your chin with her index finger.

"You're on bended knee now," she says with a cheeky, self-satisfied smirk.

You sit back on your feet and run a hand over your face, pinching the bridge of your nose and wishing like hell you could wake from this living nightmare. That you could click your heels three times and go back home. Because despite the fact that you are in your house, on your knees in front of your living, breathing manifestation of home, the place you're looking for is buried somewhere so deep in her heart that even you can't reach it. You're beginning to worry no one can, and you don't want to be lost forever.

"I know you don't like me very much right now, and truthfully, I don't like you very much right now either."

"Elena-" you start, shaking your head.

"No, let me finish," she interrupts impatiently. She kneels in front of you, taking your chin between her fingers and forcing you to meet her eyes. "It's really very simple. I want you, Damon. I've always wanted you. Human, vampire, switch on, switch off. It doesn't change a thing. Just like you love me, all the same."

She's right, of course. You may not like her very much right now, but you're certainly no less in love with her. She's still it for you. Full stop. You can't imagine anyone else in that dress. But she's flipped her switch. She's sure of her desire for you now, but will that desire be enough once her feelings return. You can't fight the self-doubt that's been your constant companion for the past century and a half.

"You don't know if you'll feel the same when your emotions are switched back on."

"_If_ I switch them back on," she corrects. "And yes, I do, Damon. I told you that I loved you. That it was the most real thing I've ever felt."

"But the sire bond-"

You see the flash of anger in her eyes an instant before the palm of her hand connects soundly with your cheek, leaving a sting behind that resonates much deeper than just your skin.

"Fuck the sire bond, Damon," she growls. "It doesn't work anymore. And I'm telling you, if I have to spend eternity with someone, I want it to be you."

She moves to stand, but you grab her by the wrist, turning her attention back to you. Sure, you're a masochist but you have to try. You wouldn't be you without a little self-flagellation.

You let your thumb tenderly caress her hand before bringing it to your lips. You hear her breath hitch, feel her fingers squeeze yours. And when, for a split second, you think you see that woefully absent light flicker in her eyes, you lean your forehead against hers and whisper pleadingly, "Come home, come back to me."

Your lips meet, softly, gently, and you hear her sigh as she melts against you. You can feel her, taste her – your Elena – until she tenses in your arms and abruptly pulls away.

"Damon, I can't," she breathes, and you see the panic in her eyes. "Not yet."

_Yet_, you'll take _yet_, if that's the best you can get. At least it's something. Better than never.

You nod silently, tucking one of her new pink strands of hair behind her ear. With a final squeeze of your hand, you watch as the artificial calm rushes back over her and empties her eyes. Standing, she straightens her spine and returns to the mirror.

"It really is a beautiful dress," she says with a small smile, smoothing down the front of the skirt.

"I know," you choke out, bowing your head to discreetly wipe away the fresh tears in your eyes.

After you help her out of the gown, she retires to your tub, a new favorite hobby of hers, while you go about picking up the pieces of your fractured reality and broken dreams.

The pictures and papers go back in their tray, the dress back into its garment bag and then you place them carefully back into the box, closing the lid on the mysteries that have been revealed.

As it were, she would have discovered them eventually. This box, its contents, the dress will all be hers someday. You've written it in your Will and even sworn Stefan to make the delivery, should you depart this immortal coil before him. You know you will never love another woman, that she knows more of your true self than anyone else ever has or will. But she deserves to know all of you.

And she should wear your mother's dress on her wedding day, whether she's on your arm or not. Because, whatever may come to pass, whatever may be proven real or not, she gave you that one cherished night and blissful morning after.

Because she is the only woman, besides your mother, to have ever made you feel truly happy and loved.

**THE END.**

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